Page 80 of Hunt Me
“Don’t know. Just stay calm.”
“Stay calm?” Her voice pitches higher. “They grabbed us, drugged us, and you want me to?—”
“Panicking won’t help.”
I scan the room. Steel door with no handle on this side. Security camera mounted in the corner, red light blinking. Two-way mirror along the right wall.
They’re watching.
“This is your fault.” Maya’s crying now. “I told you to leave them alone. Told you the Ivanovs were dangerous?—”
“This isn’t the Ivanovs.”
“Then who?”
The door opens before I can answer.
Morrison walks in.
I recognize him from the NSA files I hacked. Late fifties, gray hair, expensive suit. Face like carved granite. He moves with the confidence of someone who’s done this a thousand times.
“Miss Mitchell.” He closes the door behind him with a soft click. “We finally meet in person.”
My stomach drops.
He pulls up a third metal chair and positions it directly in front of me, close enough that I can smell his cologne, which is overbearing. “You’ve been busy.” Morrison crosses one leg over the other, casual. Like we’re having coffee instead of him holding me hostage in a black site. “Frankfurt. Luxembourg. That little trick with the DoD servers last week.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Please.” He smiles. No warmth in it. “The Phantom’s digital signature is as distinctive as a fingerprint. Elegant. Precise. Your father taught you well.”
The mention of my father sends ice through my veins.
“Don’t talk about him.”
“David Mitchell. Brilliant cryptographer. NSA’s golden boy until he discovered something he shouldn’t have.” Morrison leans forward. “Sound familiar?”
Maya whimpers beside me.
“Let her go.” I keep my voice steady. “She has nothing to do with this.”
“Your roommate? The one whose network you’ve been routing your attacks through?” Morrison glances at Maya. “She’s complicit whether she knows it or not.”
“She doesn’t?—”
“I don’t care.” He pulls a tablet from his jacket. “Here’s what’s going to happen, Miss Mitchell. You’re going to build me a backdoor into Ivanov Systems. Something their resident genius won’t detect.”
My heart hammers. “No.”
“No?” Morrison’s eyebrow arches. “Interesting choice.”
He stands, crossing to Maya’s chair and placing a hand on her shoulder.
She flinches.
“Let me rephrase.” Morrison’s fingers tighten. “You’ll do exactly what I say, or your friend pays the price.”
“Touch her and I’ll?—”
